


man vs food

by tempestaurora



Series: wayward sons [10]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Man vs Food, Peter says Fuck, Teen for language, dont do drugs, food challenge, half hearted crack, not the drug kind of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 15:24:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17286593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempestaurora/pseuds/tempestaurora
Summary: They started at Mother’s Cupboard in Manhattan. It was a hole-in-the-wall type place with little seating, but they secured a table and ordered Waffles for Harley and the Frittata Challenge for Peter.The server behind the counter raised her eyebrows. “You’re tiny,” she said. “Not—not that I mean that in a bad way. But, you’re tiny. You know what’s in the Frittata Challenge, right?”Peter nodded, and recited, “Six pounds of scrambled eggs, sausage, pepperoni, and hash browns.”“Thousands of people have attempted the challenge,” Harley added, “but ninety-five percent failed.”The woman eyed them for a moment and nodded. “If you finish it you get a t-shirt and your photo on the wall.Ifyou finish it.”“That’s the plan, ma’am."





	man vs food

**Author's Note:**

> this prompt for the wayward sons series has been sitting in my to do list since the beginning of december and i feel it's finally time to bring it out.
> 
> this is part of a series, so i recommend reading from the beginning, and if you're not new here, checking that you're up to date before starting this one! ily you guys, have fun!

“I don’t support this idea,” Pepper Potts announced that morning before she left the penthouse to attend the first of her many important and never-ending meetings.

Harley Keener, who was practically in love with Pepper Potts, said, “I don’t care if you support it, we’re doing it.” He then promptly slammed his mouth shut, eyes wide at the fact that he’d just sassed his personal hero.

Pepper raised a single, perfect eyebrow at him, taking in the fear in his eyes, then nodded. “You remember this feeling next time you want to talk back,” she said.

“I will, ma’am,” Harley replied.

Next to him, Peter Parker restrained himself enough not to laugh, while Tony Stark, in the kitchen, did no such thing.

Pepper slipped her bag onto her elbow and nodded, once, precise. “Alright. I’ll see you all this evening. Tony, I expect you in the shareholders meeting at one. And boys, I expect to not be cleaning up any vomit when I get back.”

“I haven’t puked since 2010,” Peter said.

“That’s such a lie,” Harley replied. “You vomited in the trash after the Cyclone at Coney Island.”

“And you will _not_ be vomiting anywhere but the toilet,” Pepper said with a pointed finger.

“Why do you think I’m gonna throw up?” Peter called, indignant, at Pepper’s retreating back. She didn’t dignify it with a response before stepping into the elevator.

Tony, leaning against the kitchen island, sent them a pointed look. “DUM-E’s not cleaning up the puke either,” he said.

“I’m not gonna throw up! Come on!”

Harley laughed as Peter huffed, throwing himself back into his seat. Harley drained the last of his orange juice before getting up.

“Let’s get going, I’m starving.”

“You know we have perfectly good food here,” Tony pointed out, but Harley waved him off as Peter climbed out of his chair.

“Sure, but there’s no challenge to it here.”

“Why would you want a challenge with your food? Food is not _meant_ to be challenging.”

“Get with the times, Mr Stark,” Peter said, following Harley through the kitchen and towards the elevator. “I might win a free t-shirt today.”

Tony blinked. “I’m a billionaire, kid. I could just _buy_ you a t-shirt.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have earned it.”

Harley kicked up his skateboard as they went, and a moment later they were standing in the elevator, ready to head off for breakfast. It was a little after nine AM on a Saturday morning, and Harley had been planning this day with a level of precision that Pepper would’ve been proud of, if she hadn’t been so dumbfounded by the idea.

Peter, when Harley presented the idea, had immediately agreed, as Harley expected. He then watched a lot of _Man vs Food_ and competitive eaters to prepare. He also raced Harley and Ned in a pie-eating contest the weekend before, MJ judging as she didn’t want to look like a “raspberry stained moron”. Peter had come in first by a long way, thanks to a combination of his research, enhanced speed and super metabolism.

Harley was optimistic about the day.

 

-

 

They started at Mother’s Cupboard in Manhattan. It was a hole-in-the-wall type place with little seating, but they secured a table and ordered Waffles for Harley and the Frittata Challenge for Peter.

The server behind the counter raised her eyebrows. “You’re tiny,” she said. “Not—not that I mean that in a bad way. But, you’re _tiny_. You know what’s in the Frittata Challenge, right?”

Peter nodded, and recited, “Six pounds of scrambled eggs, sausage, pepperoni, and hash browns.”

“Thousands of people have attempted the challenge,” Harley added, “but ninety-five percent failed.”

The woman eyed them for a moment and nodded. “If you finish it you get a t-shirt and your photo on the wall. _If_ you finish it.”

“That’s the plan, ma’am,” Harley said with a smile. The server shrugged and charged them, then told them the food would be delivered to their table.

Peter tilted his head at Harley when they were seated. “You sound more Southern when you say ‘ma’am’.”

“That’s because I am Southern,” Harley replied, mild.

Soon enough, the food arrived, and Harley filmed it for his Instagram story.

“My breakfast,” he said, pointing the camera at his waffles, lightly drowned in syrup. “Peter’s breakfast.” He moved the camera to the literal _mound_ of food sitting on the other side of the table. Peter pulled out his knife and fork and Harley stopped the video. He added a location tag to the story, then pushed his phone aside.

“Win us a t-shirt, Parker.”

 

-

 

Peter won the t-shirt within forty minutes. It was a big meal and Harley was pretty sure it got cold within the first twenty, but Peter didn’t complain, just kept slogging through it.

“Easy,” he said, throwing down his napkin when he was done.

The server came over, her eyes bugging out of her head. “You, and your tiny body, ate _that._ ”

“I take a size medium, actually,” Peter replied.

The server found him a t-shirt ( _Mother’s Cupboard_ was written on the front in the logo, and _I completed the Frittata Challenge!_ on the back) and Peter held it up for Harley’s Insta story, the word _VICTORIOUS_ written over the top. The server took their photo on a polaroid camera; Peter grinning with his t-shirt and Harley’s arm looped around his neck, and she stuck it on the winner’s wall with the others.

Then they were back out on the street, Harley typing into his phone to get a route to the next location.

“Curry?” he asked, and Peter nodded.

“How far’s the distance?”

“Forty-five minutes walking.”

Peter waved a hand. “Just in time for lunch, then.”

Harley found the route for the Brick Lane Curry House, and then they went off, Harley skateboarding and Peter donning his Spiderman suit in an alley to race his way there. Harley found an ear piece he’d taken from Tony’s lab, so he wouldn’t have to hold a phone, and called Peter as they went.

The fact was: Peter’s metabolism was fast on its own, but it was faster if he exercised. If Peter could swing and run and race to the next location, he should’ve worked off all six pounds of food he’d just eaten and be ready for his next meal by lunch time. He already had to eat bigger servings when he _wasn’t_ Spidermanning – the science was backing them up on this one.

They talked along the way; Peter stopping occasionally to deal with low level crimes like a mugging or helping the woman whose grocery bag broke, and making a web-bag to carry her purchases home in.

Still, Peter was Spiderman, swinging through the air, and Harley was on a skateboard. When he arrived at the Curry House, Peter – not Spiderman – was waiting outside, leaning against the wall.

“About time,” Peter said.

Harley huffed, smiling, cuffing Peter over the head and entering the Curry House ahead of him. They took their table, and ordered their meals: mild curries and rice, because Harley was a wimp and Peter had oversensitive senses in all manners, including taste, but then—

“And the Spicy Phaal curry sauce, too,” Peter said.

The waiter blinked at them, the two white boys who ordered the mild food. “You’re aware that it’s the hottest curry in the world?”

Peter nodded. “The Spicy Phaal curry sauce, please.”

The waiter opened their mouth then shut it again. “You got it,” they said at last, noting it down.

The restaurant was all dark wood surfaces and cream walls. There was a bar on the other side of the room, and at lunch time, most of the tables were taken up.

While they waited, Harley asked, “Where do you think Team Cap is right now?”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know. Hiding out in a hovel somewhere? In an Albanian prison? Actually in the Raft because the US government brought them back secretly?”

Harley snorted. “The US government has never once been quiet about anything. That’s how I know the moon landing wasn’t faked.”

“Leftfield.”

“Not really – people can’t keep secrets, Peter. And government officials _definitely_ can’t keep secrets. If the moon landing was faked, someone would’ve let the cat out of the bag by now.”

Peter nodded. “Okay, sure, I’d buy it. Why do you ask about Cap, though?”

Harley shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it recently. Like, where would I go if I were a war criminal? But then: where would I go if I were a war criminal with a spy background?”

“Black Widow?”

“Sure,” Harley said. “For starters, not the US. Wouldn’t stay in this place, nosiree. Then, you know, I thought about various places in Europe, and I do imagine they’ve been there or passed through or something, but then I thought: Africa. _Wakanda._ ”

The waiter brought their drinks and Peter took a sip of his. “You think Captain America is hiding in Wakanda?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not still, but a country that has been hidden until this year? A country that is still mostly hidden, behind forcefields and barriers? Yeah, if I were hiding out, that’s where I’d go.”

“But the Black Panther fought _against_ Captain America,” Peter pointed out.

Harley hummed. “Only because he thought the Winter Soldier killed his father. But he didn’t, that was proven. You know when I said about Barnes going into cryo? My theory about where he is now?”

“Yeah?”

“ _Wakanda._ ”

Peter shook his head. “You can’t be serious.”

“Come on, think about it. Wakanda’s advanced well beyond anything we’ve ever seen. That’s better tech than the Iron Man suit. That’s better tech that fitting a parachute in the _Spiderman_ suit, and that shit’s fucking _spandex._ ”

“It’s a multi-polymer hyper—”

“I know, I know, but if he’s gonna be in cryo anywhere, it’ll be Wakanda. Maybe the King felt bad about trying to kill him or maybe Captain America’s just really persuasive, I don’t know. His PSAs made me eat healthy for like two weeks once, he’s a convincing guy. But I think they went through that place – maybe they didn’t stay, they’re war criminals after all—”

“Yeah, I don’t imagine Wakanda wanting to keep them while they have a bounty on their heads. _Especially_ when like two weeks later, Wakanda revealed how cool they are to the world.”

“Exactly. So, passed through, pretty sure.”

Peter cocked an eyebrow. “Is this going on your conspiracy board?”

“I do not have a conspiracy board.”

“Okay, your conspiracy _blog_?”

Harley paused. “Maybe. But that’s beside the point—”

Peter burst out laughing and soon enough the food was being served. The waiter warned them about the Phaal curry sauce, and Peter thanked them to get them to stop. Harley added a photo of it all to his story – he liked updating the world on the stupid things he was doing, and, especially, the stupid things he was doing with that four-hundred dollar allowance Tony had given him and immediately regretted (“I don’t want you thinking this is some regular thing – because it’s _not._ It’s not, Harley, don’t smile at me like that”).

Harley took another photo of the curry sauce, captioning it, _hottest curry in the world. parker’s about to burn his tongue off._

“You try it first,” Peter insisted, when they were both half way through their meals and procrastinating touching the Phaal.

“Why should I try it first?”

“It was your idea.”

“I’m not the enhanced one, here.”

Peter rolled his eyes, hissing, “The enhanced part is putting me at a disadvantage here. Come on, chicken.”

Harley raised an eyebrow, settling back in his chair. “Did you just call me a chicken?”

Peter met his gaze with a challenging one of his own. “If the feathers fit.”

They stared at each other for a full thirty-six seconds before Harley blinked. He growled, “Fuck you, Parker,” before stabbing some meat with his fork and dipping it ( _gently, barely, not really at all_ ) in the curry sauce.

Peter had already whipped his phone out and started recording by the time Harley was hesitating as the food neared his mouth.

He _really_ didn’t want to burn his tongue off.

Peter started making chicken noises and Harley glared, shoving the food in his mouth.

The next three and a half minutes were the worst of his life. Worse pain than any he’d ever felt; worse than the time he broke his arm on the seesaw or picked up a glass that shattered in his hand. Worse than the time he’d been teaching Abbie how to use a baseball bat and she’d promptly (hopefully accidentally) whacked him in the nuts on the backswing.

He tried to keep a low profile with his suffering, too, but he must not have done a good enough job, because the server arrived at the table, placing down two glasses of milk and sending them both amused looks. “On the house,” they said, before vanishing back the way they came.

Harley chugged as much as he could and held the milk in his mouth until the pain lessened a little.

“You fucking _cried_ , dude,” Peter said, still recording like the little bitch he was.

Harley swiped at his face, just in case this was true – he’d been rather focused on the _agonising pain_ to notice if he’d cried or not.

“Your turn,” Harley rasped.

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, I _do._ ”

When Peter finally gave up and ate some of the curry sauce, Harley filmed it live (as revenge for, a) filming Harley at all, b) the chicken comments, and c) generally being a bad friend) and let eighteen thousand – no, twenty-two thousand people watch live as Peter experienced the Phaal curry sauce with his heightened taste buds.

“Fuck you,” he said through his melt down. “Fuck you, Harley Keener.”

“Dude,” Harley mocked, “you’re crying.”

“I’m gonna burn your house down.”

“We live in the same house.”

“I’m gonna burn your _other_ house down.”

Peter downed his milk and the rest of Harley’s too.

“I can’t wait for dinner,” Harley said.

 

~

 

When they left the Curry House, a couple people were lingering outside, periodically peeking through the window. They looked up when the boys left, grins growing on their faces.

“Oh, my god!” one said, while another asked, “Can I get a picture?”

Peter sent Harley a look. “This is what you get for tagging locations.”

“I’m an attention seeker, Peter,” Harley retorted. “What did you expect?”

They took a few photos with the crowd, answered a few questions about Iron Man and if Peter was still on good terms with his ex-boyfriend, Spiderman (Harley had _mastered_ keeping a straight face when it came to questions about the infamous Sparker). Then, they made their exit, Harley dropping his skateboard to the ground and Peter glancing over his shoulder periodically to see if any of them were following.

“A couple are,” he decided.

Harley looked back. “I don’t see any of them.”

“I can sense it,” Peter replied. “I know when people are following me.”

Harley rolled his eyes. Freaky spider powers. He often wondered if Peter would grow extra legs or start laying eggs in the middle of the night.

“Guess you’ll have to walk, then.”

They hung around the city for a while, Peter insisting that Harley _must_ know how to do something on the skateboard other than go forward, and then declining to use his freaky spider powers to pull off a few tricks for Harley’s entertainment, in case anyone was watching.

“I’m still the kid that gets winded in gym class,” Peter said. “No one needs to see me do a backflip.”

Personally, Harley disagreed.

They met more fans along the way, which was a strange occurrence for two kids who had done _nothing_ (that the public knew of) to deserve having fans. Harley felt a little like the Kardashians, without the multi-million-dollar business; they just stood there and met people and smiled in the selfies.

“Fame is weird,” Peter decided, sitting on a park bench and eating a hot dog – because, despite all the food they’d already had today, Peter was hungry by three PM. “I don’t think it’s for me.”

Harley shrugged. “This is what we get for not listening to our parents about stranger danger. What did they always say about strange men who offer candy?”

Peter scoffed. “He offered a super suit, actually, but close enough.”

“Really? He gave me candy. Like, a whole load of it. My sugar high lasted three days and at one point I couldn’t count how many fingers I was holding up.”

“Mm, I don’t remember the stranger danger talks from my parents,” Peter said. “I was too little to remember that. Though, May and Ben gave convincing ones, probably a little too late.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’d talked to a stupid amount of strangers by that point,” Peter replied. He was staring off at the play park across the field, his hot dog going cold in his hand. “After a particularly _bad_ talking-to-strangers situation, May gave me a lecture that lasted a solid week, I’m pretty sure.” Harley didn’t know what the situation was, but the look on Peter’s face made him not want to ask. Besides, Peter had been doing better at thinking and talking about May, since her death – he didn’t want to ruin that. “I think she and Ben blamed herself for it.” Peter abruptly shook his head. “Don’t talk to strangers, Harley.”

He smiled, catching sight of approaching figures. “Speaking of.”

The figures approaching were both their age, it seemed. Two girls, one wearing an Iron Man t-shirt, and the other wearing an old Avengers one. They were looking between each other, nervous and excited, before they bounded over.

“Hi, we’re so sorry to interrupt,” Avengers shirt said, “but could we get a photo?”

Peter nodded, shoving the end of the hot dog in his mouth and seeming to snap out of his mood altogether.

“Sure thing,” Harley agreed. “I like your t-shirts.”

“Thanks! We got them from this guy who’s selling _Iron Sons_ t-shirts online, which is—weird, right?”

Harley scoffed and Peter almost choked on his hot dog. “We’re not a brand,” Harley said. “Like—we literally haven’t done anything other than exist.”

One of the girls shrugged. “My sister has Paris Hilton t-shirts. Isn’t it kind of like that? They just have your faces badly photoshopped and ‘Iron Sons’ written beneath.”

Peter finally swallowed the hot dog. “We’re getting that trademarked,” he told Harley. “Or, like, getting our faces trademarked. Or, even better, we start our own line of competing merch.”

Harley grinned. “Picture this: a black t-shirt with red comic sans. It just says, _Harley’s my favourite._ ”

“You mean Team Harley and Team Peter?” Avengers shirt asked.

“Oh god, that’s a _thing?_ ”

She nodded. “I don’t know if it’s like, they’re trying to make you fight—”

“I would totally win in a fight, by the way,” Harley interjected.

“No, you would _not,_ ” Peter, AKA Spiderman, replied.

“—but it’s kind of like Team Edward/Team Jacob?”

“Or Team Iron Man and Team Cap,” Iron Man shirt added. “So, either you’re gonna have a fist fight or it’s about who’s gonna win Spiderman’s heart once and for all.”

Harley sighed deeply. “I hate my life.”

“No, you don’t,” Peter replied.

“No, I don’t.” He stretched his neck out, briefly shutting his eyes against and mentally noting that he had to find a way to capitalise off this shit. “Anyway, you wanted a picture?”

 

~

 

At dinner, Harley marked their location on his Instagram story before they even arrived. The text read, _BULL MOUNTAIN GRILLE, 6PM, WE’RE DOING THE STEAK CHALLENGE._ Beneath it was the address.

Throughout the day, Peter had convinced Harley to take the challenge too, though both boys knew he’d fail, and by the time they arrived, half the restaurant was packed with people ready to watch him do it.

“Alright,” Harley announced to Instagram live, because if he didn’t stream this, what was the point? They’d ordered and sat down; Ned and MJ walking in as they waited to hold his phone and record. Ned was holding it right now, and Peter was sitting opposite Harley at the table, loudly sipping soda through a straw. “To finish the day, we’re at Bull Mountain Grille in Manhattan to try and defeat the Steak Challenge.”

“Emphasis on _try_ , because Keener’s not gonna get past the mashed potatoes,” Peter pointed out. Ned swung the camera to him.

“Don’t be mean to me, the internet’s watching this.”

Peter grinned and let Harley run through the Steak Challenge. “Okay, so this cost $110 dollars each, so this is using the last of that money Tony gave me to get me to stop asking him for an allowance. The meal is a seventy-eight-ounce steak, with loaded mashed potatoes, a side salad and a bread roll. It doesn’t sound like a lot—”

“Dude, that sounds _massive._ ”

“—but we also have to eat it within an hour. If we win, we get the meal for free and get our photos on the Wall of Fame. And if we lose—”

“Which Harley will.”

“We get our photos on the Wall of Shame, and we also have to pay for the meal. But that’s fine. That’s Tony Stark’s money. He can afford it.”

A moment later, the food arrived on giant platters. The boys had taken a table for four instead of two, because of the projected size of the meal, and the server counted down to the start, at which point their little audience cheered and they started eating.

Harley, by the way, was in fact full after eating the mashed potatoes. Peter was one-hundred percent right.

They ploughed through their meals, trying to figure out the best way to get through the food while the clock kept ticking down the seconds. The bread roll was just… too much bread. The salad was not enough reprieve from the mash. The steak was _seventy-eight ounces_ and Harley was not big. He was a child. A small, small child.

And Peter – Peter was _smaller._ Harley was firmly average height, but Peter was less so, and incredibly skinny and innocent looking. Yeah, he had the metabolism of a hummingbird, but surely there wasn’t enough space in Peter’s body to put all the food.

“This is so stupid,” Harley complained thirty minutes in. He was not nearly far enough into this meal for the time it was taking. “Why did we do this?”

“Content,” Peter replied, his mouth full of steak. “We did this for content.”

Ten minutes later, Tony Stark was in the restaurant with a pointedly raised eyebrow, his arms crossed over his chest. The audience had gone a little bit crazy to see him there, and Ned had given up filming the boys in favour of aiming the camera at Tony as soon as he’d walked in.

“Either of them thrown up yet?” he asked, sidling up to MJ.

She shook her head. “Why? Is there a pool going on that? Because I’d put my money on Keener blowing chunks any minute.”

“I heard that,” Harley grumbled, his head resting on one fist as he dutifully shovelled meat into his mouth. Opposite him, Peter was actually doing _well._ Sure, he was slowing greatly, but his roll was gone, as was the salad and most of the mash. He had less than half a steak left, and twenty minutes on the clock. The tiny body of Peter Parker might actually win this – which, honestly, was what they were hoping for.

On the other hand, Harley Keener’s face was going to live on the Wall of Shame for the rest of time, and he’d put himself in that position.

“Why are you here?” Harley groaned, talking with his mouth full.

Tony pulled a face at that and shrugged. “I was watching it on my phone and thought it would be more entertaining to see you lose in person. Besides, apparently, I’m paying for this meal. How you doing, kid?” He directed this to Peter, who gave him a weak thumbs up and shoved another chunk of steak in his mouth. Tony sighed. “My children. My heirs.” He looked to Harley’s phone, pointed at him. “Imagine the world left in those hands. Dumbassery would reign.”

Ned pointed the camera back to Peter and Harley, the latter of which’s face slipped off his hand and almost faceplanted in his meal. Harley stared at the plate with wide eyes before sitting up.

Off camera, Tony Stark sighed once more.

The timer kept counting down, and Peter picked up the pace in the final ten minutes, getting a second wind or possibly having tapped into reserves of Spiderman willpower to get him through the meal.

And he fucking finished it.

That cheating superpowered asshole.

At t-minus four minutes, seventeen seconds, Peter shoved the final piece of steak in his mouth and threw down his cutlery. Shoving his hands in the air, victorious, the crowd cheered and he leapt out of his chair.

Harley bowed his head, still chewing slowly, dying even slower, ready to sink beneath the cool earth and be buried beneath this stupid fucking restaurant. He never wanted to look at another steak again in his life. No, scratch that. He was done with food altogether. He wasn’t touching it again. Food was the enemy now, it was off limits and it caused nothing but pain.

At t-minus two minutes, the crowd tried to hype Harley into finishing by chanting his name, but Harley was planning his funeral as he shoved more steak into his mouth. He quite liked sunflowers, but Harley was dead and sunflowers were joyful, and he didn’t like the idea of anyone being _happy_ at his funeral. No, they were to live in misery. Maybe black sunflowers. Maybe flowers in only dark, depressing shades of purple. The music had to be dreary, too. And if Peter didn’t throw himself onto Harley’s coffin in a burst of pained anguish, then what was the point of dying?

Peter would have to beg god to strike him down in that moment, to let himself be buried in the same grave as Harley. Of course, his death would make all the newspapers. _Harley Keener: cut down in his prime. STEAK: THE KILLER OF KEENER._ Steak would be outlawed for hurting such a young, innocent soul. His funeral, Peter’s grave-jumping attempt included, would be televised globally; the whole world would come out for it.

Tony would be so angry at the concept of food (and the Bull Mountain Grille, which would inevitably shut down – disappointing, of course, but they deserved it for murdering him), that he would create a food substitute. Maybe a fine powder, or a gelatine product that could be injected into the body. The whole world would want to avoid food, for taking Harley’s life, and they’d buy this product instead. _It’s dinner time,_ a hypothetical mother would say, _sit down and have your Keener._ Of course, it would be named after him.

The buzzer rang and the crowd cheered and sighed and did other crowd-like things. Harley shoved his platter away and plonked his head down on the table top, finally able to rest. _Goodbye, cruel world. I hardly knew ye._

Someone rolled his face to the side to take the polaroid photo for the Wall of Shame. They then rolled it back so he could fester.

He stayed there, borderline comatose, waiting for the clutch of death to pull him under, as Peter had his photo taken (hands raised in victory, giant grin on his face), and Tony went to the counter to pay for Harley’s horrible, murderous meal. _He’ll sue,_ Harley thought. _Tony will sue when I’m dead. They killed me and he’ll sue them for everything they have._

At some point, the Instagram live ended and people took photos and congratulated Peter and Harley stayed at the table, his eyes shut, a little confused about why he was still conscious and not yet dead.

“Hey, kiddo,” a soft voice said from beside him. Harley made a groaning noise at the back of his throat. “You gonna throw up?” Harley wiggled his head, just slightly. _No._ “Alright, then I won’t protest to having you in my fancy car. You wanna go?”

Harley let out some mix of groan and vowels. Beside him, Tony laughed.

“Alright, kid. Say goodbye to your adoring public.”

Harley blinked his eyes open. _Not dead. Shame._ He pushed himself upright. Tony helped lug him to his feet, holding Harley’s skateboard in his free hand, before calling Peter over.

Peter pressed Harley’s phone into his hand, and soon enough they were trailing their way out of the restaurant, Peter doing some overly long and complicated handshake with Ned, and Harley doing some easy and not complicated at all fist bump with MJ. They had to wait for the other two to finish.

“It’s alright that you’re a failure,” MJ said.

Harley hummed, tired and yes, feeling like he might blow chunks over Tony’s Italian leather after all. “You ever failed at something?”

“Not that I can recall,” MJ replied. “I meant that it’s okay that _you’re_ a failure. Not everyone can live up to my standards.”

In the back of Tony’s sportscar, Harley pulled his feet up onto the expensive seats and shut his eyes. He listened to the conversation up front as he started falling asleep.

“You win a free t-shirt?” Tony asked, quiet.

“Yep. And two places took my photo for their walls!”

“Good kid. You two have fun today?”

“Oh, yeah. Harley may be comatose right now, but it was so fun. I think we should do it again some time.”

“That’s good, Pete.”

The music played softly. Maybe Harley could die to the sound of AC/DC on low.

“Yeah. Hey, Mr Stark?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s for dinner?”

Harley let out a bark of laughter, as Tony exclaimed, _What?_ in his most incredulous tone. Turns out, he was going to stay alive after all. Apparently, steak wouldn’t be the death of Harley Keener.

**Author's Note:**

> what are endings, amirite?
> 
> harley is killing it with the avengers theories, by the way. and all the restaurants and challenges mentioned in this fic are real and featured on the tv show man vs food. they're just not all in the locations i described.
> 
> thanks for reading! talk to me in the comments about things! tell me about your pets! and your new years! and if you have any resolutions that you probably won't keep!


End file.
